


Aziraphale in the Snakes' Den

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angelic Magic, Blow Jobs, Death-Sentence, Demon Magic, Jewelry, Lots of Snakes, M/M, Nakedness, Rough Oral Sex, dub-con, dub-con blowjob, snake venom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 20:36:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20453180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Aziraphale is sentenced to death and thrown into a pit full of snakes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the Tadfield Advertiser kinkmeme.

"With the power given to my by our highest gods, I hereby sentence you -"

Aziraphale clasped his hands together. "Please," he whispered, hoping against hope that his fate might yet be changed.

"- to death!"

The clan leader's bellow echoed against the walls of the courthouse, shaking the sandstone. Or maybe that were the two hundred pairs of feet that started stomping all at once, delighted by the outcome of the trial.

Aziraphale fell to his knees, palms to the floor. "No, my lord. Please, I beg you to reconsider!"

"As I am a merciful leader, representing merciful gods, your death will be relatively swift and hopefully mostly painless," the chief declared mercilessly. He gave his guards a nod. "Toss him into the snake pit."

"My lord!" Aziraphale cried. His fingers curled in the dirt. "Please, do not- do not-"

He was grabbed roughly and hauled to his feet. The onlookers cheered.

Aziraphale struggled. "This is a grave mistake! Let me go!"

One of the guards gave him a shake. The other motioned for the crowds to part, which they did all too willingly, clearing the path towards the chief's infamous snake pit. He supposedly housed two of every dangerous serpent in the world down there, and four of every venomous one.

From the outside, it didn't look all that dangerous. It was mainly just a massive iron gate that led down a small flight of stairs which ended abruptly, giving way to the actual pit.

The first guard opened the door, the second shoved Aziraphale through.

"Please, please, no," the angel whimpered, clutching at the bars as the door was slammed shut in his face.

"Down with him," commanded the chief, as if Aziraphale hadn't spoken. As if he were already dead.

A shiver ran down his spine.

Both guards brandished their lances and aimed at Aziraphale.

"Move," the first one commented.

"No!"

He thrust the lance at the angel, barely missing his soft flank. Aziraphale didn't even have time to whimper, or argue, when the second weapon came at him, forcing him to either let himself be impaled or jump backwards - down the stairs.

Continuing this pattern, they herded him closer and closer to the drop. It wasn't actually very steep, Aziraphale discovered when he cast a frightened glance over his shoulder - snake venom was supposed to hurt dreadfully when it worked its way through the veins, was it not? - about the height of a man, just enough to keep the bigger snakes contained.

Pain pierced his thigh. He cried out and stumbled, trying to catch himself against the wall. His fingers found the rough stone, stroking briefly along it before it abruptly ended. He'd reached the edge.

Above him, the crowd cheered. Only a few were able see him directly, as the entrance to the pit was so narrow, but they must be reading what was going on from the body language of the guards.

Speaking of. With matching wide, blood-thirsty grins, they shoved him over the edge.

–

Aziraphale hit the ground with a muffled thump. It was, luckily, very soft - made of the same kind of material a forest floor would be made of, around these parts. So if he'd thought the fall might knock him out so he wouldn't be here for the end, he was out of luck.

The plants - thick bushes and small trees - around him rustled ominously. They were a lush, verdant green, despite the lack of light.

His thigh throbbed. A bloom of red was spreading on the fabric of his pants. It hurt. Should he close the wound with magic, or would that just prolong the inevitable? Would miracling the snake venom from his system do the same? He might have been an angel, but in this form, even his power was limited. How long would he hold out until he had to surrender his corporation to the poisons?

_I don't want to die_, Aziraphale thought desperately, curling in on himself. _Not like this._

At least the humans weren't able to see him any more. Though he could still hear them cheering. There would be a feast, now, in honor of justice served. Children squealed, women chattered and men laughed. And under the sound of humans making merry while one of their own died a terrible, agonizing death alone in the dark, was a low, rumbling cacophony of hissing.

Aziraphale shot to his feet. Well, into a sitting position, at least – his knee was burning, he didn't think he'd be able to put weight on it.

As soon as he was up, he found himself eye to eye with at least a dozen snakes. They weren't the kind of snakes he'd seen by the roadside either, back when he'd still been traveling. Those had been as long and thick as his arm - these were longer than two men were tall, and their bodies were as wide as small tree-trunks. Beautifully patterned and shimmery-skinned in colors ranging from moss-green to orange, they slithered towards him, their menacing red, yellow or brown eyes fixed on him.

He noted, absently, that their pupils were suspiciously round. An adaption to the dark, maybe?

Aziraphale held up both hands, calling upon his magic. "Hello there, my dears," he whispered, his voice slightly scratchy. He wove light between his fingers. "I bet you're all very docile, aren't you?"

The foremost snake blinked at him. Then she curled her body, lifting her head off the ground. A perfect striking pose.

A shudder gripped Aziraphale. "No," he said, curling his hands to fists.

The snake hissed, opened her maw to reveal a truly impressive set of fangs, and jumped him.

With a scream, Aziraphale fell backwards. Still in the air, he realized that there were probably only more snakes behind him. Panicked, he clung to his half-woven miracle, flinging it outwards.

Light hit the snake like dust. It froze and collapsed.

"Ha," Aziraphale panted. "Take that."

The next snake approached and he gave it the same treatment. Already, he could feel his drained resources run thin. But he kept it up, fighting valiantly, until half a dozen serpents of all patterns and colors lay curled at his feet.

The angel stood over the paralyzed bunch, trying to keep every dark nook and every shifting leaf in sight. He could feel them – their sinuous, winding bodies under the foliage, just waiting for a chance to strike.

A twig cracked behind him.

Aziraphale whirled on his heels and thrusts his glowing hands out in front of him, instinctively throwing more magic.

The serpent – a massive beast, easily twice as big and long as the ones to the angel's feet, with night-black scales, a red pattern and soulless yellow eyes – ducked, spitting a hiss. It followed the spell sailing past with its gaze, watching it explode against the closest tree trunk like an overripe tomato. Then it turned back to Aziraphale, tongue flicking the air.

_Shit_, Aziraphale thought, wobbling on his knees. He tried to snap his fingers, but his knuckles wouldn't budge. He was empty.

"What the fuck are you doing here?," said the snake.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley’s relationship to sitting was roughly the same as the one liquid water had to a flat surface: he sprawled. His long limbs poured out in every direction from the broad, stone armchair he had somehow managed to squeeze into the back of his lethal little garden. The thick, soft looking furs of various jungle predators were draped over the granite slab, giving it the appearance of a throne. With the way the branches of greenery bowed to meet him, heavy with offerings of their ripest, sweetest fruit, the clinking, jewel-encrusted rings and hoops bedecking his arms and neck, as well as the serpents curling and hissing by his naked feet, he also _looked_ the part of the spoiled prince, smirking in wry amusement at a naughty servant. “You have some guts, turning up here.”

Aziraphale, determined not to let himself be distracted by Crowley’s complete lack of clothing, bristled. Where the old kings of Mesopotamia might have presented themselves in the nude to their most loyal retainers as a show of trust, right now it was clearly meant to be blatant provocation. “It’s not like I was trying to be tossed in here.”

“Oh, really?” Crowley drawled. “Couldn’t have told from your outfit.”

Before he could stop himself – and, even worse, _knowing exactly_ what he was wearing – Aziraphale looked down. He was not dressed half as impressively as Crowley, even though he was wearing more. A tunic, at least, and proper sandals, which were speckled with dirt from the uneven floor. “I have standards.”

“Those will get you killed some day. Oh, wait. They already have.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows drew together. “There is no need for that kind of sarcasm,” he scolded. “Now, if you’d kindly show me the exit, I’ll be out of your, er, hair.”

Crowley arched a perfectly plucked brow. “It’s supposed to be an execution, angel. There is no ‘exit’.”

He reached a hand over his head and plucked an overly ripe fig from a low-hanging branch. The fruit was swollen and purple between his fingers. With a suddenly sharp, claw-like fingernail, he started quartering the upper half, Aziraphale ostensibly forgotten.

Something cold and queasy made its way up the angel’s spine, slithering like a… wait. Aziraphale patted the back of his tunic, but could only feel the cloth against his back. Ok. _Phew._

He wrung his hands. “But… you can’t let me discorporate here.”

“Can’t I?”

The coldness settled behind his sternum. At about the same time, his toes and fingertips started prickling. “You need to help me get out of here,” Aziraphale said, with as much calm as he could muster.

“Do I?”

“Open the gate.”

Crowley’s gaze snapped to his. “No.”

Aziraphale’s fist curled around nothing. It was one thing that the demon should refuse to help him – that was almost expected – but quite another for him to keep him here, where he could do nothing but die. And die he would, once Crowley lost control over the beasts he associated himself with these days. “Excuse me?”

He was done cutting the fig. He carefully placed his fingers around its thick, round belly and started squeezing. “No dice, angel.”

The sliced top of the fruit unfurled like a flower, allowing its pink innards to well up from within.

“Crowley!”

The demon jumped to his feet, all of his fiery attention suddenly on Aziraphale. “You think you can just waltz in here, into the place I call my home, uninvited, after two-hundred and fifty years of absolute silence, proceed to stun all my friends and then start making demands of me?” Fury radiated from him. “Answer me, angel.”

Aziraphale took an instinctive step backwards. Drained as his own energy was, he could feel Crowley’s outburst like pinpricks on his skin. “Your… your friends?”

The demon’s gaze dropped to the snakes.

“But those are–” Aziraphale broke off, realizing he was on very thin ice. He deflated. “Your friends.”

“My friends,” Crowley confirmed. He returned to his throne, part of his attention already finding back to his disemboweled snack. “Believe it or not, they’re not that easy to make for someone like me. Don’t have that added advantage of general reassurance. People tend to run.” He waved a hand. “If you really want to leave, I guess I can’t stop you from blasting a hole in the wall. Shouldn’t be a problem, now that you’ve exercised your aim.”

He opened his mouth far wider than should be possible for a human-shaped being and swallowed the whole squashed fig in one go – skin and all. It made the whole peeling-process rather redundant.

“I. Uh,” said the angel, blushing. “I… can’t.”

“Ou-wuff?”

Aziraphale turned his head away, searching hard for something – anything – else to stare at. “I can’t. I’m… empty.”

Crowley swallowed, Adam’s apple hopping in his throat. His eyes widened in understanding. “I thought _something_ was sponging up the energy in here. Ritual up top or whatever the humans get up to. But it’s _you_.”

He cocked his head. Black mist sparked between his fingers. Before Aziraphale could even _think_ about lifting a hand to shield himself, the demon balled the spell into a fig-sized projectile and hurled it at the angel.

It hit him squarely in the chest, exploding against the fabric of his tunic and carrying him off his feet. He landed hard in the dirt again.

Crowley barked a sharp laugh. He came towards Aziraphale, stalking him like a hungry predator. “Look at that. A helpless angel, all alone. What to do, what to do.”

Aziraphale tried to climb to his feet, but he only got as far as his knees before Crowley’s foot landed on his shoulder, holding him down. “Let me go,” Aziraphale said. Or, tried to. His voice was shaking. 

“You know, I always wondered what it would be like, having an angel on his knees. Didn’t think it’d be this easy.”

“Get thee behind me, foul fiend.”

“Such a dirty mouth.”

Crowley pressed a palm to Aziraphale’s back, between his shoulder blades – between his _wings_. There was no warmth in his touch. Reptile cold or demonic disposition, the angel wondered, a shiver working its way down his spine.

Unceremoniously, the demon shoved him into the dirt.

From down here, Aziraphale could see the mass of smooth, winding bodies curled around and on top of each other. A multitude of eyes scrutinized him; tiny, forked tongues flickering to check the air for the smell of dinner.

Crowley plopped himself down on the angel’s back. His cock, half-hard, came to rest against the curve of Aziraphale’s spine. “I wouldn’t worry about _them_ if I were you, angel.”

As if they’d heard every word – which they probably had – the mass of snakes curled tighter, retreating further into the dark. They didn’t flee, though. Were they waiting for an opening, despite an order from a demon?

Sweat gathered on Aziraphale’s brow. He wanted to wipe it away, but he didn’t dare move. Crowley’s gaze was boring into the back of his head – and something else was prodding him rather insistently.

The angel cleared his throat. “And in return for my freedom you want–”

“You know what I want.”

The demon rocked his hips once, a slow, sinuous undulation, and heat flared in Aziraphale’s belly. He pressed his eyes shut. “No.”

Crowley paused. “No?” A caress – sharpened fingertips, only gentle by careful calculation – pricked the back of Aziraphale’s neck. “I don’t think you’re in a position to refuse, angel.”

“No.”

Crowley went preternaturally, dangerously still.

When there hadn’t been anything to hear but his breathing, slightly ragged but steady, Aziraphale gave a small wriggle. He was nervous that Crowley wouldn’t let him up. He was a demon, after all: he might just take what he wanted – and the angel wasn’t quite sure whether that idea excited or terrified him.

But the Serpent let him turn over under him, so he could look up into the blazing gold of his eyes. Hard like polished coins, they were the brightest thing in the room beside the torches’ flames. His eyelids were encrusted with scales, his face more snake than human.

“Freedom has its price, Aziraphale.”

And from the hunger in his face, the angel had no doubt what Crowley wanted that price to be.

The thought send sparks of excitement down his spine. At the same time, an unsettling feeling shot through his limbs, contracting his muscles and making him want to run. Maybe one day Aziraphale would be brave enough to give Crowley what they both wanted. But that day wasn’t today. He cleared his throat and licked his lips to moisten them. A stirring of hope rose in his chest when he saw the demon’s gaze drop to follow the motion.

“You’re going to make me wait again, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale splayed careful palms on Crowley’s thighs. “I’ll give you something else.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !! NEW TAGS !!  
Warning: Dub-Con!

Aziraphale sat Crowley on his lithic throne and moved to kneel before him. It took him a long moment to work up the composure needed to look his longest enemy in the face.

The firelight played in the demon’s riot of curls, glinting off the rings and clasps of jewels and pearls woven into the red strands. Threads of spun gold looped around his neck, spilling tiny crystals over his collarbones. Even with streaks of black scales adorning his cheekbones and eyelids, he was still the most beautiful creature the angel had ever seen.

The sight made a certain warmth bloom in his belly: a siren call to worship. Unease halted his movements. He was not a human and it didn’t befit a servant of the Lord to revere a golden calf.

“Get to it, angel,” Crowley hissed.

Aziraphale pushed the queasiness down and laid his hands on the demon’s shins. The smooth, marble coolness of his skin felt like blasphemy; running his palms up to Crowley’s knees tasted like treason. Under the serpent’s burning gaze, Aziraphale’s skin prickled with heat – yet, he couldn’t figure out which altar he was desecrating.

Was it his erstwhile steadfast loyalty to Heaven that was cracking and crumbling like masonry overgrown with vines and left alone for a hundred years? Or was he soiling _Crowley_ with the touch of his hands?

The demon rumbled above him, probably sensing Aziraphale’s spiraling thoughts. “You’re going to have to do more than that to make this worth my while.”

At the threatening undertone, a shiver ran down Aziraphale’s spine. He could picture it clearly, where the consequences of his failure might lead him: pressed up against a wall with the serpent behind him, taking what he desired and leaving the angel a burned-out husk in the process, hollowed and empty after lust had swept everything he was into the demon’s skilled claws.

Worse, yet, was that Aziraphale knew what would come after. There was no doubt about it: once Crowley laid his hands on him, really did it, Aziraphale would be _his_ – and there would be no end to his worship. The thought alone was terrifying.

So, while he was still in control, he took a deep breath and slid his hands up over Crowley’s knees. He had nice thighs, muscular and strong.

Sure, he’d never been on the conventionally attractive side: always a bit too slim, like a beggar; or muscled like a thief, but rarely soft with fat and good living. Aziraphale had often wondered if that was a deliberate choice, if the demon clad himself in the likeness of the poor people he preferred to tempt, but Crowley spent more time among kings and princes than beggars. Not like the angel, who surrounded himself with the working class and couldn’t help indulging a little when the opportunity allowed.

It was his corporation accumulating weight easily. Nothing to do with pleasures of the flesh, or gluttony. Or so he told himself. But oh, looking upon Crowley’s cock – long and curved and needy with blood – his mouth began to water.

Aziraphale dug his fingers into the soft skin of Crowley’s inner thighs and the demon opened his legs, spreading them wide enough for his knees to bump the edges of his throne. It gave the angel space to wedge in a little closer, enough to make the cock in front of his face seem almost comically large. Of course it was just perspective, he wasn’t meant to be this close, but it still made a harsh breath rasp from between his teeth. The air stroked the swollen shaft, provoking a sharp gasp from the demon, and the rigid flesh twitched.

A shudder worked its way through Aziraphale’s body, trying to pool in his loins. But there was nothing for the feeling to hold onto. He _couldn’t_ have a reaction to this. Crowley probably knew anyway, being a demon and all, but he himself wasn’t quite ready to face that truth.

“Angel,” Crowley warned. A hand slid into his hair to exert some gentle pressure.

“Of course,” Aziraphale mumbled, casting his eyes down. He licked his lips, gathering saliva, and carefully put his mouth to the very tip of the shaft. He’d been planning to slide down slowly, savoring the way the flesh stretched his throat, but now that he was this close he couldn’t stop himself from flicking his tongue against it.

A trickle of fluid bubbled from the tip, wetting his lips. Aziraphale drew the salty flavor into his mouth, rolling it around on his tongue, considering where might he have tasted similar things – foods, of course, not bodies.

He didn’t get very far with it, though, because Crowley suddenly gripped his head with both hands and shoved him onto his cock. Like a battering ram, the thick flesh pushed right down his throat, sheathing itself until Aziraphale’s nose was buried in the demon’s flaming red pubic hair. The entry completely cut off his air. He gagged, throat fluttering around the resistance, and tears welled up in his eyes.

Crowley gave his hips a gentle roll and a moan spilled from his lips. “Yeah, that’s it. Good angel.”

The words ignited a spark of _something_ at the base of Aziraphale’s spine. He squashed it viciously, trying, somewhat panicked, to breathe through his nose. But it was in vain: he couldn’t stop gagging. The urge to struggle and break away quickly became overwhelming.

But Crowley wasn’t letting go. He drew back a little – a temporary reprieve – before thrusting in again, deeper than before.

Aziraphale’s throat spasmed. His fingers clawed bruises into the demon’s thigh from how hard he was gripping them, trying to pull away.

Crowley didn’t even seem to notice, lost in the pleasure. “Oh! Oh, angel, you have no idea.”

Another thrust, as deep as before. Crowley started rocking his hips without pause, between little sighs, aborted breaths and whispered praise of just how good Aziraphale was doing. That he’d never even dared to think an angel could be so good for him.

The tears spilled over, running down Aziraphale’s cheek. He squeezed his eyes shut. His nose felt stuffy and since he couldn’t swallow, spit poured over his lips to run down his chin. It tasted like Crowley; everything he could smell or feel was also Crowley, moving his body above him and holding Aziraphale’s head between his legs to chase his pleasure.

This wasn’t how Aziraphale had ever pictured it going. Yet, down here, he couldn’t imagine it going otherwise, either.

Eventually, he stopped struggling and just held his breath. His body didn’t need to breathe, after all. Thus reminded, said body could be convinced to relax his throat, too.

Crowley’s thrusts grew gentler. As if now that he’d wrestled his arch-enemy into submission, he could afford to be a little kinder. He settled on a rolling rhythm that seemed to please him a lot, judging by the soft sounds he was making.

Aziraphale cast a shy look up at him and saw that the demon had closed his eyes. He’d drawn his lower lip between his teeth and an adorable little crease appeared between his brows as he hunted for release. It looked… laborious.

Something suspiciously fond welled up inside Aziraphale. He let go of Crowley’s thigh to feel around for his chin, coating his fingers in the generously dripping spit.

The demon shifted a little, clearly feeling the movement but disinclined to disrupt his rhythm, which was how Aziraphale managed to slide his fingers under Crowley’s thigh and, since he was slouching so much, right under his buttocks and into the crack.

Crowley bucked. “Fuck! Angel!”

Aziraphale coughed. Fresh tears made his vision blur. When he looked up again all he could see was blazing yellow; fat black ovals swimming in the middle.

Holding his gaze – Aziraphale didn’t dare thinking about how his own face looked; blotchy from crying and his eyes rimmed with red – the angel felt around with his fingertips until he found the barely perceptible solidity of the clenched muscle. He pushed against it, rubbing it softly.

Crowley’s grip in his hair tightened, but he couldn’t help loosening up.

Swiftly, Aziraphale took the chance to push a finger into the demon’s tight hole, right up to the third knuckle.

Crowley cried out, hips canting up hard into the plush wetness of the angel’s throat before driving himself back onto the intruding digit. It took one, maybe two more thrusts like that for him to throw his head back with a groan, cock pulsing.

For a moment, Aziraphale – held down, immobilized – was confused, until he felt a sudden, overwhelming pressure in his throat. He had no choice but to swallow. An echo of bitterness washed over his tongue, making his eyes water again.

Once the cock in his mouth had stopped twitching, Crowley abruptly let go.

Aziraphale jerked away and doubled over, coughing until his windpipe burned. Well, even more than it had been already.

The demon above him was sprawled over his throne, boneless, a sloe-eyed look on his face. All tension seemed to have bled from his long body; like water poured over stone. Like he wasn’t, on the inside, deeply concerned about having so many extra limbs.

Seeing him like this, with his head tilted back and his eyes closed, kindled an overwhelming urge to be near him in Aziraphale. He scooted closer again, laying his head on the demon’s thigh.

Crowley stiffened. Then all breath left him in a rush. He pushed his fingers into Aziraphale’s hair again. Stroke for stroke, he got gentler, scritching lightly at his scalp. “Good angel. You were so good for me.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and sunk.

–

The humans didn’t come back for days. Which was a little surprising, considering how much these people prided themselves on their snakes. Leaving them unfed, while knowing fully well they wouldn’t share their previous ‘prey’ seemed like an unnecessary precursor to cannibalism. Aziraphale was getting more than a few hungry looks from all of Crowley’s ‘friends.’

At least now that he had time to slowly regain his powers, they seemed to have come to the unspoken agreement that attacking him would be a Very Bad Idea. Good.

Apart from keeping a careful eye on his surroundings, his time in the snake pit passed quietly for Aziraphale. Crowley kept him company the first day, until being bipedal got too boring for him and he changed back into his snake-form.

Aziraphale claimed his place on the throne, which was really very comfortable, and to his surprise, Crowley slithered over to curl up in his lap shortly after. Quite fortunately so, because Aziraphale had been biding his time for ages to get his hands on those scales.

They didn’t talk a lot.

Well, Crowley didn’t. Aziraphale recounted the story of how he ended up down here – a dreadful misunderstanding – and continued seamlessly into what he had been up to the past two hundred and fifty years since they last saw one another. Thinking back on it, most of it sounded somewhat dull. The books he’d read, the plays he watched and the history he saw being made held a lot more of his attention than the human’s ever-shifting politics.

Crowley didn’t comment on any of it, but Aziraphale could tell he was listening intently from the way he flicked his tongue out, keeping the angel in his sight at all times. It made a strange warmth blossom in his chest – at least until Crowley told him snakes slept with their eyes open.

Strangely, Aziraphale didn’t mind that so much, either. Just being near Crowley seemed like a breath of fresh air compared to the thick fog that had been the past quarter century. And now that the infernal serpent had soothed his desire to be intimate with him, Aziraphale could glutton himself on the demon’s skin contact in peace. He felt like he should think, long and hard, about what it meant that he wished, from time to time, the humans would take even longer to collect his supposed remains, but – as with all weird feelings concerning Crowley – Aziraphale was, thankfully, very good at boxing it up.

Eventually, they did come back, though. Aziraphale’s heart stung with sadness when he heard the metallic rattle of the gate.

Then outrage took over. He hopped down from the throne.

Crowley, who’d been draped over his shoulders for the past hour, hissed at the sudden movement.

Aziraphale put a hand on his sleek, black body to keep him from slipping off and practically flew to the door, levitating up to the opening.

The guard let out a terrified scream. Behind him, the goat he’d brought for the snakes startled and jumped away, dragging the leash from his hand.

“You,” the guard exclaimed, brandishing his spear. “But– but how?”

“Because this is what happens when you sentence an angel to death,” Aziraphale yelled. His wings exploded into reality, creating a shock wave that pushed the human back at least a foot.

“Yeah,” Crowley hissed, almost too soft to hear. “Give it to them!”

The guard, sadly, did not do what most humans did when faced with divinity. He did not fall to his knees, nor did he avert his eyes or beg for forgiveness. He didn’t even apologize for pushing Aziraphale down here. No, he simply fainted, the git.

Aziraphale, thus interrupted, blinked a couple of times and gently touched down on the stone slabs. The corridor was too narrow for his wings, so he snapped them out of existence again. “Oh, bother,” he mumbled, looking down at the fallen guard. “Should I wake him up?”

He kind of wanted to convince the human it _hadn’t_ been a dream, which he would undoubtedly think when he woke to find the snake pit empty, as it should have been. But as an angel, Aziraphale was not supposed to be this petty about a human tribe’s misguided antics.

“Could run under holy vengeance,” Crowley proposed, as if he’d read his thoughts.

Aziraphale sighed. Then he simply stepped over the guy and walked out the door.

The coliseum, or however they called this proto-feasting hall, was largely empty. The guard’s goat had hopped onto one of the tables and another man, in more festive garb, was trying to catch it while simultaneously pelting it with insults. He whirled when he heard Aziraphale coming. His eyes widened and he, too, immediately passed out.

Aziraphale cocked a brow at Crowley, who placidly flicked his tongue at him.

The angel felt a stab of irritation. He grunted. “I can’t deal with this place anymore.”

With another snap of his fingers, the world blurred around them. Mountains rose and fell, waters shored, geographies shifted; a mass of swirling colors with just the two of them, one angel and one demon, the ever-present center of the storm.

They landed in the middle of a dark, damp forest. As soon as his soles touched the ground, Aziraphale’s knees gave out under him. He’d overexerted himself again.

No matter. They were distinctly more to the north and in a distinctly colder climate, which was overall a lot more pleasant.

Crowley curled up tighter, almost strangling his neck. “You know, angel,” he hissed, lifting his head to look Aziraphale in the eye. “_I_ didn’t actually want to leave.”

“Tough luck,” said Aziraphale. “Stay?”

Crowley grumbled. “Fine.”


End file.
